Poetry is for Poets
by ADHDQueen123
Summary: Poets don't normally write for the enjoyment of others. Just themselves. (AU in which Bellamy and Clarke are in the same poetry course.) (Oh, and this was my english paper. I wrote Bellarke fanfiction for my english paper.)


Clarke sits in the farthest seat in the farthest corner, trying to make herself as small as possible. She loved learning, there was no denying it, but she isn't quite so fond of people. Her dislike doesn't prevent her poetry professor from lecturing, though. "Poetry is not meant to be understood. Poets normally don't write for the entertainment of others, more so for themselves. Now, I told you all I wanted you to write a poem that describes you the way you see yourself. Bellamy, you read yours." A young man around the age of twenty stands in front of her, and walks down the few steps to the podium at the front of the room, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. "But of course, sir." His voice is deep, but even a deaf man could hear the arrogance to his tone**. **"Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women. I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those woman that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me; I see that they understand me, and do not deny me; I see that they are worthy of me- I will be the robust husband of those woman." Professor Kane gives a tight-lipped smile, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you, Bellamy, for that. Go sit down." The dark haired boy walks back up the stairs, that cocky look never leaving his face, especially when he notices Clarke's eyes watching him intently. Clarke scoffs softly, ripping her attention away for Bellamy and back down to the red leather notebook in front of her. Words cover the page, but she isn't sure she understands them. She never has, but she still wrote them down, hoping one day the jumbled letters would have some deep meaning to them. She glances up lazily, realizing then that staying up until three to write a paper did nothing for her energy. The blonde lays her arm out, and rests her head on the white fuzzy material of her sweater. Her eyes close slowly, and she has every intention to wake up in five minutes.

A loud sound echoes throughout the classroom, and Clarke's head jerks up while her arm juts out, causing her journal to fly forward, landing at a pair of canvas-clad feet. "Oh, princess, don't you know that sleeping in class is so high school?" Stormy eyes look up into chocolate ones, and Clarke can't help but feel the need to yell at this guy, but she doesn't. She never does. "What don't have anything to say? Wonder if this notebook has anything." Clarke's eyes turn to those of a deer, and she grabs out for her notebook, but Bellamy pushes her gently back into her seat. "No, please give it back!" Bellamy laughs as he thumbs through the pages. His smirk (Clarke swears he was the Cheshire cat), doesn't get smaller as he reads, but his eyes become softer. Then he laughs, and Clarke is terrified when she can't tell if it's mocking or amused. She shoves her notes in her bag, and wrenches the journal from Bellamy's hands, storming out of the classroom. "Not bad poems, princess!" Bellamy calls out, and sighs when she's out of sight, his hands resting in his pockets. "Not bad at all."

* * *

"He's so-so-"

"Insufferable?" Clarke's friend smiles at her from across the small dorm. They were only a month apart, Clarke being the one to be born last. Even though she was a sophomore in college, she still acted like a child, when she felt like the time called for it. This was one of those times. The elder of the two girls knew how deep her friend's dislike for Bellamy Blake went. It ran almost as deep as his like for her. Almost. Raven stands up and walks the very short distance to her friend's bed. "Clarke, I tell you that all the time. Men are idiots." She then sighs, falling backwards onto the stiff mattress. "Oh, I can't wait to get out of this place." Clarke smiles as her fingers tighten around her journal, the one she hadn't let go of since her encounter with Bellamy. "I agree. Although, **there is no frigate like a book,****t****o take us lands away."** Raven smiles, and props herself up on her elbows, looking at her friend curiously. "Is that one of your poems?" Clarke's golden waves fly from her braid as she shakes her head. "No, just something I thought of." Raven nodded, although she knew her friend was lying, and sat up fully. "Do you know what time it is? Miller wanted us to meet him in the lobby at six. He said something about us meeting his new roommate?"

"Oh, did he finally find someone that would put up with his filth?"

"Nah, he probably just bribed him." The two girls laugh as they stand, stretching. "It's about five twenty. I'll get changed then I'll meet you outside, yeah?" Raven nodded, and left, leaving her friend alone with her thoughts. She was half tempted to fake being sick, but decided against it. It wasn't that she didn't want to meet her good friend's new roommate (although that was the majority of it); she just wasn't the best when it came to people. She wasn't as outgoing like her friends. They never seemed to mind, but Clarke still felt badly.

Sighing, she went over to the box she called a closet and pulled out an off black circle skirt, along with tan tights and black ballet flats. After changing out of her dingy and worn sweatpants, she put on the more presentable clothing choice and slipped out of her room, grabbing her purse, journal, and keys on the way out. Raven is waiting there, and barely looks up from her phone. "Ready, Clarke?" The smaller girl smiles, and the two set off, preparing themselves to meet whoever is crazy enough to put up with their friend.

* * *

It's him.

Of _COURSE_ it's him. Clarke barely has the time to brace herself. At first, she thinks it's just a coincidence, him standing there with her friend. Maybe they shared a class, or they were on the soccer team together? Clarke's hopes are dashed as they get closer, and she can tell from by the way to two are speaking, that the one and only (thank god) Bellamy Blake is her friend's new roommate. "Just breathe, Clarke. I'll talk for you." Raven whispers to her sister, but all Clarke can do is nod.

And she was trying to have a good rest of the day.

Miller notices them before _he_ does, and for that Clarke is grateful. "Hey, you two! Didn't think you would be here early. Knowing this one," he pulls Clarke into him, ruffling her hair, "I thought you'd be late!" Raven laughs as she joins her siblings in a hug. "Yeah, well, we were bored." Miller smiles at the both of them, pulling away. "Hey, Blake, I want you to meet two friends of mine, Raven and Clarke." Bellamy finally focuses on the two, and his eyes widen _ever so slightly_ when they land on Clarke. "Raven, nice to meet you, and princess, it's such an honor that you decided to grace me with your presence." Clarke's grip tightens on her journal, and Bellamy's eyes have a sudden gleam to them. "So, Miller, why did you want us to leave the warmth and comfort of our wonderfully sized dorm to come meet your roommate? You made it seem so urgent." Raven crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, all while partially blocking her friend from Bellamy. This all went completely over Miller's head. "Well, I haven't seen you two in while-"

"You came over two weeks ago."

"AND I thought we should catch up, and what better way to do so than over take out?" The two girls look at each other, shaking their heads at their friend's tactics. Raven shrugs. "If you're paying, I'm game." The darker skinned boy smiles widely, and then they all turn to Clarke. She looks at them all, her siblings pleading with his eyes and Bellamy just plain smirking. (Does that boy have _any_ other facial expression?)She finally cracks, sighing and looking down. "Fine, I'll bite. But I'm not talking."

* * *

"So, Bellamy, you're a poetry major right?" Miller asks in between mouthfuls of sweet and sour chicken, his legs crossed as he leans back against his couch. As a senior, Austin lived in a two-room apartment off campus, and they all decided to go there to eat, since the girls' room was _way _too small for four people. Bellamy nods, taking a sip of his Coke. "That and history, yeah. I'm actually in the same class as Clarke." He smiles at her, a real, _genuine_ smile, but Clarke is too engrossed in her Steak and rice to notice. Of course, being the oblivious idiot he is, Miller sits up, smiling. "No way! Small world, eh Clarkey?" He nudges the girl with gold on her head, and only then does he realize that her face is redder than the wine stain on his carpet. He clears his throat when he notices Raven's death glare. It becomes stiflingly awkward, and everyone can feel it. Clarke stands first, throwing her container into the trash bag by the couch. "It's, um, It's a little hot in here, I'm going to go stand on the porch for a minute." She then gives a tight smile, heading for the patio door, slipping out into the crisp night air. She leans forward and rests her arms on the rusting metal railing, looking out at the city lights in the distance. A sighs escapes the troubled poets lips (is there any other type of poet?), and she lets the peaceful quiet soak in. And then he's there. "Hey princess." He hasn't moved from the doorway, just stands there, observing. "Again-his voice is at the door-" Clarke mutters while glancing at the frustratingly re-appearing thorn in her side. "May I help you?"

"No." He doesn't say anything else, just walks forward, setting something down on the splintered wood before straightening and leaning forward. Clarke remains tense for a while, never before in such a strangely comfortable silence with Bellamy Blake. She loosens, a few minutes later, and they stand there, neither talking as they stare at the stars. "You're not half bad." Bellamy's words surprise Clarke for a moment, because they hadn't been talking for a while, and he had never spoken to her without a mocking tone. She looks at him, confused, all while his eyes don't leave the lights miles away. "What?"

"Your poetry. You're really good." Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, and she turns to face him fully. "How would you know? You've never read my-" Realization dawns on her, and she's not sure if she should yell or thank him. He must sense her conflict, because he turns to face her then, a soft smile gracing his annoyingly handsome features. "Don't be mad, please. I think I can only handle one person yelling at me per day." He laughs at her confusion, something he seems to make her quite often. "Your friend gave me quite the speech in there, something about me ' needing to leave you alone.' Anyways, I'm sorry about your journal." Clarke raises an eyebrow at him, smirking lightly. "Is Bellamy Blake apologizing to an invisible girl like me? I might faint." Bellamy laughs then, and not a condescending one, but a full on, amused laugh, one that makes Clarke smile. "Yeah, I am, and Clarke?" His tone turns serious when he says her name, and she realizes he actually says her _name._ "Yeah?"

"You're not invisible." Clarke scoffs, and Bellamy leans every so slightly closer to her. "No, you're not. I'm not really sure why you think that." She shrugs, and tries to ignore the tightness in her chest. "Being invisible is easier, because then no one can criticize me, because they don't know I'm there." The older boy shakes his head, his blackish-brown curls flying around. "Well, you need to stop hiding. I already see you." They lock eyes, and though it's brief, Clarke feels wanted, and it scares the hell out of her. She takes a miniscule step back, clearing her throat. "So, um, what poem did you read? From my journal I mean?" Bellamy sighs leaning with his back against the railing. "It was the one about faith being an invention, or something like that. It was nice."

"Well, I'm glad someone likes it. I tried using it for a paper in Kane's class, but he practically covered my paper in red ink, criticizing it." She shrugs, as if it's not a big deal. "Well, don't feel too bad. Kane doesn't like anyone's work. I mean, he clearly didn't like my wonderfully written poem from this morning!" They both laugh, and Bellamy notices how her eyes light up, if only just. "I can't wait to get out of here, if I do."

"What do you mean?" Clarke glances at him, and then rests her head on her arms. "Never mind." But Bellamy insists. "Come on tell me!" Chuckling, Clarke sighs, giving in. "My mom, she wasn't too happy about me quitting med school to go into poetry, so they cut me off. I hate this town, but unless some miracle happens, I'm not going anywhere after college." Bellamy gives her a look and then leans down, and picks up two cans. "I'll take you away, then! To some far away place were no one can dictate your writing except your pen." He holds out one of the cans to Clarke, and she takes it hesitantly, an amused smile faint on her lips. Bellamy then holds up his own drink. "A toast." Clarke laughs. "What for?"

"A promise, to California, also to the great Pastoral Plains, and for Oregon. To writing and freedom and whatever the hell you want." They both smile, and finally Clarke opens her drink and taps the rim to the edge of his. "To California, then." They stand there in silence for the rest of the evening, only sharing a small good bye when the two girls leave.

* * *

Clarke is laughing like a madman, clutching her sides in amusement. "Oh come on! It's not that funny!" Bellamy is laughing with her, smiling wide at the girl in front of him. They're sitting on Miller's couch, attempting to study for their upcoming poetry exam. They've been doing that often, studying, or really, just hanging out in general. Clarke was really on the fence about it, at first. Heck, she's still on the fence about it, but he's not the total jerk she thought he was. Only sometimes. The rest of the time, he's actually a nice guy, and he makes her laugh. Which is why she was practically crying with tears, her sides in stitches. "Y-yes it wa-was!" The past ten minutes they had been debating on who was a worse singer, and Clarke ended up winning hands down. "Princess, I'm wounded!" He loves seeing her smile, and knowing that he was the one who put it there, because for so long all he saw was a tight- lipped grimace. Clarke's breathing finally slows enough to where she can breathe, and she sits up, giggling every now and then. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." They sit there, grinning like a pair of idiots, completely forgetting the exam they had in two hours.

* * *

Bellamy's hands are shaking like leaves in a hurricane, and he's about as nervous as humanly possible. "Chill out, Blake." Miller calls from the infamous couch, the one that everyone seems to sit on at least once, and throws a piece of popcorn at his friend. "Are you twelve Miller?"

"Bellamy, dude, calm down. It's not like you're marrying her. You're just going on a date, to the crappy pizza parlor around the corner. Just treat it like any other date." Bellamy sighs in irritation, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. "Clarke isn't any other date. She's different." Miller sits up from his place in their tiny living area, jumping over the back of the couch to stand in front of the terrified guy in front of him. "That's what you said about the last three girls you dated. Look, I get that you like Clarke; I do, but don't treat her like the others. Don't treat her one way then turn into a jerk a week later." Bellamy nods, cracking his neck and glancing down at his appearance. His dark jeans, black shirt, and worn our leather jacket seemed like a good idea at the time, but now- "Yo, Blake! Clarke's here!"

"Now or never, I suppose." Bellamy walks over to the door where Miller and Clarke are standing. His eyes widen at the girl (young woman, really) in front of him. She isn't dressed much different than normal, but instead of her sweater and sweatpants, she's wearing a knee-length green dress with quarter length sleeves, brown combat boots, and her messy bun is down on some fancy looking braid. "Wow, Clarke, you're- and your dress- um, you look really good." The young poet smiles, and looks down to hide a blush. Someone clears their throat, and the two remember Miller. "So, have fun, bring her back, blah, blah, blah, the whole nine yards. Oh, and remember, she can't have-"

"Olives, got it." Bellamy smiles and offers his arm to the girl that made him feel… Well, feelings. "Ready, your highness?" Clarke laughs, waving to her friend as they walk out the door into the cool, fall night. "Of course, my liege."

They walk to the crappy pizza parlor together, talking about little things and big things and everything in between. When they finally get there, they get a seat in the corner where the light above flickers every now and then. The place is crowded with hormonal teenagers, but the two poets barely notice them, engrossed in their own little world. Their conversation ventured, like it normally did, to poetry. "You know, Kane might be a jerk, but he did have a point. Poets write for themselves. The fact that others read it is just a coincidence." Bellamy raises his eyebrow in silent question, taking a sip of his water before speaking. "I suppose he's not wrong. I don't think I've ever asked this, but why do you take poetry of all things? You would be a great author, as well as a poet, also, I heard that the literary professors are _much_ more approachable than Kane." The two chuckle lightly, and Clarke looks down at her overly oiled pizza. "I don't know… Okay, that's not true. My, um, my father was a poet, before he died when I was thirteen. I loved poetry before then, but after his funeral, my mom got rid of most of his stuff, so poetry was the one thing I had left of him that she couldn't take from me." Unshed tears shine in her eyes, and Bellamy reaches the small distance to hold her delicate, pale hand in his larger, tanner one. Their eyes meet, and he gives her a loving smile, one she returns in full. "Here we two content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word." Clakre laughs softly, feeling happier than she had in years.

* * *

It had only been four months, but they had been happy. They argued, but who didn't? All their arguments ended the same, with a heated kiss and probably a poem or two, but they always worked it out.

Until now.

Neither one remember what they had started arguing about, only that it escalated like fire, becoming so large that not even the bravest dared to put it out.

"Perfect Clarke, you never make a mistake, do you?! Well guess what? Outside fair costume—within, ashes and filth!" He regrets the words the second he says them, but its too late, he's taken it too far, as he normally does. He watches as her heart breaks, can pin point the very second it happens. He reaches out for her, but she backs away, shaking her head vigorously. "Clarke, I'm sorry, please, I'll do anything. I'll find a way to fix this-"

"He shall seek in vain." Its raining on her face, and all he can do is stand there, watching the one girl he ever really cared about walk out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. "Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?" Bellamy mutters, falling to his knees.

* * *

He hadn't seen her in a year.

After that night, she had avoided him like the plague, and he didn't really blame her. He had tried talking to her one day after class, but she only ripped her arm away. "I promise you will not see me again till I am firm in Heaven." And she had left. For a while, he had resented her for leaving him, and forced himself to forget her. (He never fully could though.)

Now, here he was, practically speeding to the hospital to get to the girl he had broken. Miller was the one to call him. He sounded frantic and terrified, and all Bellamy really understood was "Too young- Clarke- Terminal cancer." That was enough, though, to cause him to leave work an hour early. He screeches into the parking lot, and bolts inside, skidding to a halt in front of the information desk. Everything around him smells sterile and sickly, all at the same time. A fragile elder woman sits behind the counter, and looks up at him, a concerned look on her face. "May I help you, young man?"

"Yeah, I'm here to see Clarke Griffin." The woman's eyes become sad, and she types quickly on the ancient computer in front of her. "Are you family?" He hesitates then, because he needs to see her, but if he says he's not family, he might not get to. "No, I'm her boyfriend." The woman nods, and informs him that Clarke is in room 712, and he can't get there fast enough. He doesn't register his surroundings, but he does notice a change in the air when he enters the Cancer wing. It seems oddly bright, and he doesn't understand why a place with more death than most would seem so calm. "Bellamy!" Walt looks up and sees Miller, standing from beside is sister outside room 712. "I got here, and the nurse seemed upset when I mentioned Clarke. Is she…?" The elder boy shakes his head, his eyes red and puffy. "No, she's not. She's just… She's so young. She shouldn't have to deal with this." Bellamy nods, glancing over at the closed door. "Can I- Can I see her? Please?" Miller hesitates, and surprisingly, he isn't the one who answers. "Yeah. Just make sure to wear a mask." Raven is standing next to them now, and her eyes mirror Millers. After Bellamy and Clarke broke up, Raven hated Bellamy's very existence, so the fact that _she_ was the one to allow him access, well lets say he was surprised.

Bellamy slips into the dimly lit room, the blinds pulled tight and a small lamp being the only source of illumination. Clarke notices him immediately, and her eyes water, as do his. "Bellamy, I'm so sorry." Bellamy smiles sadly and walks forward, sitting in the chair next to her. "Hey, the princess never apologizes." Clarke gives a gasping laugh, the tubes in her nose completely forgotten. "Thank you… for coming." Bellamy's eyes soften and he clasps her hands (they are so, so much colder now) in his. "Of course. I wouldn't be anywhere else.

He visits he every day after he gets off from work, sometimes coming twice on weekends. Some days they'll sit and watch movies, and others he'll read while she sleeps (she does that so often these days.) No matter the day or the weather, he's there. He's the first one she walks with when she's aloud to move around. They don't go far, just to the end of the hall, but it's enough. He's there through her chemo (she absolutely _loathes_ the chemo), and he never misses pudding Thursday. He visits her for two months, and he never misses a day.

Until he does.

At first, she thinks she's just tired, and he did come in but she was too sleepy to remember. Then she realizes that it's five forty-five, and he got off forty-five minutes ago. She comes to the conclusion that he just couldn't come, and she isn't too upset, because he'll be there tomorrow for pudding, and he never misses pudding. He'll be here tomorrow, she thinks, because that's when she gets moved into an actual recovery room, with actual blinds. But he's not. In fact, it's nearly two weeks before she sees him again.

In reality, a part of her knew something was wrong. He hadn't visited in a while, and when he promised that he would visit every day, she knew he meant it. So finding him in the room _right next to hers_, well, it's a shock. Raven tells her what happened as she's sitting in shock on the chair next to his bed. "He had been speeding to get here, and ran a red light at an intersection a block away. The other driver got away fine, but Bellamy…"

He was in a coma. It was simple as that. He wouldn't wake up, no matter how much she willed him too. It's a night after she finds him when it happens.

She hears the doctors rushing, and sees them run into the room next door, and she knows what happens before anyone tells her.

Later that night, she's laying in bed, numb and tired, when Miller walks in. She gives him a teary, broken smile, feeling her energy draining from exhaustion. "A Death blow is a Life blow to Some." Her eyes close, and she lets the darkness take away the pain.

* * *

"..rke! Clakre!" Clarke's head jerks up, her notebook flying forward. Laughter fills the classroom, and Clarke can feel her face light on fire as she looks at the pissed expression of her professor. "Clarke, please try to stay _awake_ during my class." Clarke looks down, pulling her sleeves past her fingers. "Yes sir."


End file.
